


Unloveable

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, John is very very sad, Past Character Death, Self-Harm, Seriously guys, graphic depictions of self harm, the triggers are real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:44:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7665502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was crying, and he wanted to know someone cared. Someone who wasn’t his sister, who he knew only cared for him out of necessity. Someone who wasn’t his mother, who would only say “I love you” when she was high. And someone who wasn’t his father, who claimed to say to things he did, do the things he did, because he loved John.</p><p>TW: Self harm, implied/referenced past suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unloveable

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I've included this already in the summary and the tags but TW for self harm and past character suicides, and thoughts of suicide.
> 
> I'm in a sad mood so I wrote sad John.

John was crying, and he wanted to know someone cared. Someone who wasn’t his sister, who he knew only cared for him out of necessity. Someone who wasn’t his mother, who would only say “I love you” when she was high. And someone who wasn’t his  _ father _ , who claimed to say to things he did,  _ do _ the things he did, because he loved John.

 

So he messaged his friend Lafayette. They were online, right? John trusted them with his entire world, Laf would be there, Laf was  _ always there. _

 

[Me] i need your help

 

[Me] dad’s drunk again

 

[Me] i havent been this scarednof him in so long

 

[Me] my hands are shaking,,,,

 

John looked up at his laptop screen to check if they were typing. That’s when he noticed that their status had switched from “Online” to “Away” since he had started talking. That was okay though, sometimes Skype does that. He continued to wipe away his tears, checking the clock, checking their status. Five minutes turned to ten, when turned to twenty.  _ That’s because they aren’t going to respond at all, fatass. _ A heavy stone set inside of him.  _ They’re probably sick of you by now. It was only a matter of time before they realized how shitty of a friend you are. _

 

He looked over at his box, the locked one that sat in his bookcase. He made it when he was eleven; it was decorated in pirate stickers and was relatively small. What was held inside was much darker than pre-teen John Laurens had thought it would be. Inside were his blades from back when. He’d been clean for two months now, that’s why he kept them in there. There were also the notes, the ones he had left before on his numerous failed attempts. Ever since he met Lafayette, however, he felt… better. He would always go through the same spells, but they were there to help him through, not just saying “It gets better, don’t worry.” They cared. Or he thought they did.

 

There were also the letters from… from  _ her. _ The thought of his dearest friend who left without him made him choke up again, a lump in his throat that made it harder to breathe.

 

He once again looked at the box, and thought to the key under the birdhouse on his desk. The tears that welled up in his eyes were falling freely. Slowly, he picked it up and with shaking hands took out the key. He popped open the lock, and opened the lid. Except, inside where his cheap but sharp razor should’ve been was a sticky note.

 

_ Jack, _

_ I’m sorry, but I had to take these from you. I wouldn’t be able to stand finding you again, it would be too hard on me. Please, think about it. _

 

_ Your sister,  _

_ Martha. _

 

John let out a low wail, a bubble coming from his mouth and popping. He crunched up the note in his hand. He put his face in his hands and sobbed, because it was all he could do. He looked up from his hands to stare at the ceiling, but as he did a picture in the box caught his eye. He picked it up at unfolded it with careful fingers. And his mother and his younger self were looking up at him. More tears came to his eyes, as he stared at it. His mother was so beautiful back then, before the addiction. Her smile lit up the world, and she looked down at four year old John with love and adoration in her eyes. He smiled a watery smile, before remembering what she’s like now. Thinned hair, alcohol on her lips, and marijuana always packed tightly into a bowl. At first she tried to hide it, but when he caught her in the backyard one day, all cares slipped away from her. He folded the picture back up neatly and placed it aside. 

 

There was also a locket he bought, but never ended up wearing. There were two pictures, one of Lafayette, and the other of Alexander. He quickly shut it again, guilt coming over him. He placed it back in the box, willing himself not to look at the third item that wasn’t completely about him, but the tiny illustration poked out from the messy fold, and John couldn’t help but pick it up. On it was a drawing of an arm; his arm, that is, he could tell from the freckles. The arm had lines drawn across it. The words on the paper read:

 

**“You know the scars on your wrists? Don’t lie. You have them. I watch as you pull your sleeve down during English to hide them. Those are for pain relief, right? You’ve been hurt, by so many people that you love. I know that. But don’t pretend like you don’t know what it does to other people when in the middle of summer you start wearing long sleeves again. You know that person you can tell anything to? They feel your pain. I know I do. And you might not care about me at all, and that’s alright. But I’m here. Your pain is my pain. It sounds stupid and worth nothing and it may seem like I just want your attention. And yeah, sometimes I do, but I want you to know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE. I may be just as special to you as the gum you spit out earlier before Mr. Washington could catch you with it in class and that’s okay. I don’t need all of your liking. You could hate me, and there would be nothing I could do about it. But I’m here for you. There are probably many better people you can talk to than me, but I’m always on your side. No matter how many arguments, or disagreements we have, I hope to be at least something to you. Actually, not something but someone. You’ll get through this.**

 

**Love,**

**Martha M.”**

 

John put a hand over his mouth and started sobbing again. In his laptop screen, now turned black, he saw his reflection.  _ Look at you, fucking mess. You couldn’t even save her, how do you expect to keep saving yourself?  _ He still remembered the day he found that in his locker. He read it in the boys’ locker room after school. He remembered crying, and watching her get off the bus the next morning before running over to hug her, whispering muffled thank you’s into her hair. He remembered all the days he spent with her, how he cared for her.  _ And how you killed her. She was fine before she met you. She was happy. You made her want to end it, and that’s what she did. _

 

He picked up the paper, folded it in a different messy way, and threw it in the box. He slammed the lock back into place and picked it up, with the intention the put it back on his shelf. But he felt something on the underside. He flipped it over and there was a paperclip taped there. One of the really big and fancy ones. He vaguely remembered putting it there, just in case. He stared at it for a long while. He knew it was the only way to be fixed, at least until he could fall asleep. He carefully pulled it out, as to not damage the crappy paint job. He slowly pulled it apart until it was just one thin metal stick.

 

He put it to the inside of his forearm, and took a deep breath. He felt in sink in slightly, and he moved it down and up again to curve into the first letter. His tears stopped and a choked sob came straight from his throat. He always forgot that’s why he could never stop once he started; because the tears always did. He slowly moved his hand to start on the next one, speeding up again, sloppier. Then he went over to the sink in his bathroom and washed it, so when it puffed up he’d be able to see it, as a reminder to never get too happy again. 

 

He plugged his earbuds into his mp3 player and turned them up to full volume. He laid down in bed, ignoring the fact that his phone was buzzing repeatedly. As he slipped into a dreamy half sleep he looked down at his arm, where the word glared back.

 

_ UnLoveaBle. _


End file.
